


Just Molly

by fairiesbyte



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Lots of Sex, Sherlock Holmes is Bad at Feelings, awkward misunderstandings, friends with benefits kind of
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-13
Updated: 2015-01-13
Packaged: 2018-03-07 11:08:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,791
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3172234
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fairiesbyte/pseuds/fairiesbyte
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was a day like any other when Molly Hooper realized something that no one expected. Sherlock Holmes was human being. No, more than that. Sherlock Holmes was a man, a man with manly urges.</p><p>Otherwise known as Molly Hooper and the year that she realized Sherlock wasn't all he was cracked up to be.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1: The Beginning

**Author's Note:**

> Written with my friend Marisa.

It was a day like any other when Molly Hooper realized something that no one expected. Sherlock Holmes was human being. No, more than that. Sherlock Holmes was a man, a man with manly urges.

As stated before, it was a day like any other. Grey and dreary like it always was in London, and unsurprisingly Molly and Sherlock were in the lab.

Sherlock was testing something or other and Molly was talking with the new lab assistant. The lab assistant, (John?) was openly flirting, and Molly flirted right back at him. (Fred?) It was nice to feel wanted for once, she had long ago given up the hope that Sherlock would ever be interested in her. So logically, she was a bit surprised at what came next.

As soon as the lab's door shut behind the assistant, (Jerry?) Sherlock stood up from his microscope-where he had been working-and suddenly Molly was up against a wall.

She wasn't entirely sure how she had gotten there, but at the moment she didn't much care. Because at the time, the most surprising thing wasn't that Molly Hopper was up against a wall, the most surprising thing was that Molly Hopper was up against a wall being thoroughly snogged by Sherlock bloody Holmes.

For a second she froze, the light switch was digging into her back, her ponytail was laying oddly against the wall, and Sherlock's hands were gripping her shoulders so tight she was sure they were going to be bruised. But then she realized SHERLOCK HOLMES WAS KISSING HER! And she stopped thinking, for once in her life she shut off her brain and just acted.

She thrust her hands into his silken curls and their tongues battled for dominance. His hands seemed to be everywhere and nowhere at once. She felt like she was burning from the inside out, and despite all of her fantasies, she'd never imagined how good Sherlock's perfect, cupid's bow lips would feel against her own. But then they were gone.

Sherlock pulled back and looked her in the eye, licked his swollen lips, stared probingly into her eyes, and then he completely blindsided her.

"Is this okay?" He asked, staring deeply into her eyes. And Molly had to work not to let her mouth drop open in shock. He had never her asked permission for anything before.

The first time she met him he marched in and sat down at a microscope without even introducing himself.

Sherlock shifted uncomfortably, and Molly realized that she had been staring blankly at him for quite some time. She quickly nodded her head, and a smirk graced his features.

"Good." He said, and then he went back to devouring her.

Two minutes or two years later he pulled away abruptly and turned around, putting on his coat and scarf. He looked back at her.

"Don't go out with him. He has three cats at home and lives with his mother. The only meal he really eats is macaroni and cheese because he's allergic to pretty much everything else. He has only had one girlfriend and that was back in high school. Oh and his glasses are the wrong prescription." He declared smoothly as he popped his collar and walked out.

It was an embarrassingly long time before Molly could tear her gaze away from the door that the consulting detective had exited. And even after that, the rest of her shift Molly couldn't stop touching her slightly swollen lips.

They were the only proof that what she thought had just happened just happened. She had to remind herself every few minutes because she had had very realistic fantasies before and she wanted, no, needed to make sure that this wasn't one of them.

And after even a few more minutes of tightly pursed lips and wide-open eyes, now looking over papers detailing nothing in particular, the lab assistant (Charles, maybe?) poked his head back in, a look on his face that Molly had come to recognize. It was the Sherlock Face, as she called it, a bit deceptive in its name - it was essentially the face that she noticed on a good number of people when they had at least come into a moment's contact with Sherlock. And all in an instant, she began wondering just what that stupid, genius man had done. Glanced at the poor unsuspecting lab assistant (wait, no, Danny for sure) with all the unknowing pretentiousness, of a child who thought he knew everything?

As if on cue, the insipid assistant interrupted Molly's already-flustered fussing with a high-pitched, upturned tone of voice as he asked, glancing behind him, "Is something wrong with your friend there, Miss Hooper? He bumped into me and couldn't even look me in the eye when he apologized. Eyes just glued to the floor and all."

Molly Hooper's tense shoulders drooped, her lips relaxed and her eyes almost bulged out of her skill as she looked up from her false work.

"Did he, now...?" She chuckled, an audible crack in her voice as she tucked a few stray hairs behind her ear. "Probably just tired."

But her casual facade could hardly mask the unbridled shock rising in her throat, the need to yell an unrestrained "WHAT?", because now more than ever, there was reason to believe that Sherlock Holmes was human. And that should have made her ecstatic, overjoyed - but it terrified her.

It terrified him too.

Sherlock, cursing awkwardly under his breath as he hurried along home to Baker Street as he almost tripped over the third street crack in his path, over the course of those past few minutes. It was the first time that he could remember thinking something through so poorly. Because, of course, he did think it through, and if he didn't, he simply wouldn't have acted.

But he remembered it - the wretched, detestable heat growing in his mind. It was like a computer overheating, getting too worked up and stressed out to carry out even the most basic of tasks. And the computer HATED itself for being so vulnerable to that same heat that it seemed everyone else was.

Truth be told, Sherlock Holmes thought of himself as asexual. He had never experienced that sort of attraction to anyone - male, female or otherwise - before in his life, that almost ravenous, mind-numbing desire. The closest thing to sexual attraction Sherlock ever suffered was perhaps during his brief stint as an addict in university.

He discovered slowly that he craved Molly right then they same way that he had craved heroin. Except actually not at all the same way. That was part of what made this such a conflict for Sherlock Holmes, not only was it in conflict with knowledge he thought was previously valid, but he was also currently entirely unable to make sense of it at all.

Books and film made it look so damned simple, but unfortunately, Sherlock considered himself part of a higher race of human that realized that the way people act in literature and film are tragically different from the way people act in real life.

And it was all so predictable and stupid, he thought, that he, the detached and cold Sherlock Holmes, should find himself growing attracted to the simple, frumpy, girl-next-door Molly Hooper who seemed to serve no higher purpose to society other than existing. It was ridiculous. It was practically scripted.

The rest of the workday passed in a blur for Molly, and as soon as she was done with her shift she was out like a shot. She quickly hailed a cab and chewed nervously on her thumb nail the whole way home.

Back at her flat, Molly quickly turned on Roman Holiday, in hopes that it would make her feel better, like it always did. But unfortunately this time it didn't. The romantic scenes only served to make her more anxious, the dresses couldn't distract her, and the montages made her fidget all the more.

She finally got up to get her emergency stash of Reese's Peanut Butter Cups, reserved for bad breakups or especially bad, or confusing days. She figured that this fell into the latter category.

But sadly, even these sweet treats couldn't help the phantom feeling of his lips on hers and his neatly manicured nails scratching against her scalp. And as the credits rolled and the bag was emptied Molly felt worse than ever before. There was no more movie or work to distract her, and the questions she had wanted to ask all day burned on her lips as she stood up to pace.

"Why?" She burst out, startling her cat Toby, who huffed irritably and started batting at the trailing end of her dressing gown. "Why now of all times?"

Was it because he was lonely, she thought as she tore her thumb nail to shreds. Was it an experiment? She let out an uncharacteristically bitter laugh. That would be just like him, wouldn't it. To use his feelings to his advantage. He did that all the time anyway, she was well aware that he did that already. Did he want to see what all the nonsense was about, sexuality and all? He could have just asked. It scared her a bit to admit it, but she would do anything for that man. She'd probably kill for him.

Molly paused in her pacing, that was probably it. He wanted to know what it felt like to be kissed. He'd probably done it before, but knowing him, he'd deleted it.

She snickered for a second, thinking about when he asked her what the planets in the solar system were.

But Molly was strong in her resolve, she would help him do whatever he wanted to do. She would always be there for him. Even when he didn't want her too.

She went back to pacing.

Little did the pathologist know that Sherlock was in much the same position at 221b Baker Street.

He paced frantically, still in his Belstaff and scarf. He'd only meant to try out what snogging felt like. But he hadn't expected to like it. In fact, he'd expected the opposite. He'd wanted to put himself off physical contact forever. But...

He paused for a second. Kissing Molly had been-

"No!" He shouted at himself. "It was a dreadful experience, I shall never want to repeat it!" That was a lie. But then an idea came over him as if a light bulb turned on, "I'll delete it, it will be as if it never happened."

He smiled at his reasoning, he'd known that he would find a solution.

"MRS. HUDSON!" He hollered down the stairs as he finally removed his coat. "I'D LIKE SOME TEA!"

But later, he thought, as he picked up his violin and began to play.

Over the next few days, Sherlock tried to put Molly out of his mind. He went on more cases than usual (he even took on a 2) and studiously avoided St. Bart's.

He decided that his yearning for the pathologist stemmed from loneliness. It wasn't Dr. Hooper in particular he wanted to be around, any sort of companionship would do. So Sherlock casually mentioned finding a flat mate to the lead pathologist, Mike Stamford.

That's when he found John Watson, the army doctor distracted him for a bit. And the man provided to be a good companion. Sherlock even found himself growing fond of John.

But he still craved Molly. He wanted to be near her, to see her, to hear her, even to smell her. Plain soap and disinfectant, that combined with her natural scent led to an intoxicating mixture.

The consulting detective ignored his baser urges, and whenever they came up, he shoved them into a corner of his mind palace.

Molly was half relieved and half disappointed when she saw Sherlock over the next few days. she tested the waters and asked him out for coffee, but his answer combined with the look he gave her afterwards gave her an answer.

They weren't talking about it. And Molly was sort of glad after all, he probably regretted it. Also, if they did talk about it they would probably end with him telling her what a horrible kisser she was. Molly smiled sadly at the thought.

He'd gotten himself a flat mate and things had gone back to normal. Molly never expected it to happen again.

Until it did.

Maybe it was the intoxicating mixture of plain soap, disinfectant and pheromones that the possibly-human-possibly-not Sherlock Holmes noticed about Molly Hooper that he just quite simply could not resist, or maybe it was because the distance only made him want her more and more, but the point is that it did happen again.

And this time, Molly did not seem quite so enthusiastic.

It had ended just as suddenly as the previous time, with the hushed gasps of breath shared between the two of them. But Molly beat Sherlock to the punch.

With a look on her face - eyebrows raised, eyes shut and mouth slightly open as she shook her head shakily and lifted her hands, perhaps in surrender - of utterly exasperated confusion, she spoke before Sherlock could even dream of doing so.

"No. Look," she stuttered, eyes fluttering open as she looked up at the consulting detective, then looked back down at her feet. She took a quiet breath in, pursing her lips as she stuttered on with a practiced illusion of assertiveness, "Alright. Alright, is this what's going to happen?"

Pretending not to know what she was talking about, Sherlock merely tilted his head and quirked a brow at her, in his typical self-superior and judgmental fashion. This only seemed to make Molly more irritated as she stammered on.

"No. No. This. This whole," now gesturing with cold, awkward hands, "This thing you're doing. Right now. Not even talking to me, not even so much as giving a WORD before you pull this stunt." Helplessly angry, with no strength or outlet for her feelings.

"Oh please, surely you didn't expect me to go on, fawning over my 'feelings'," Sherlock snarled with a sneer, rolling his eyes.

"No! No, I didn't! I just..." In the heat of the moment, Molly seemed to forget everything she knew about Sherlock in her hurt rage. She felt used up. Like a toy. Like he could just come in at any moment, use her to relieve himself, and he could just leave without a word. And she knew she would be completely helpless and vulnerable to him, and she only grew angrier with that knowledge.

"You what?" Sherlock snapped, albeit with a visible restraint, noticing that Molly was obviously not pleased with this turn of events.

"I just... Hoped that! I just!" Molly stared up at Sherlock again, eyes helplessly wide as she couldn't find the right words to express her thoughts that didn't sound ridiculous in her own head.

Sherlock sighed, closing his eyes for a moment, and rubbed his temples. "You hoped that I could have come back with flowers and a card, and that I could have explained eloquently that I am rightly and wildly in love with you so that we could have engaged in a healthy and happy romantic relationship."

Almost appalled by his accuracy, Molly again started to stammer, but this time, nothing exactly understandable came out. As she realized that, she soon went silent, looking down again and pursing her lips.

"But what you knew deep down, despite your hopes, was that that was not going to happen, not by any stretch of the imagination, and my arrival has shocked you. You're hurt. It's like I'm teasing you - twisting the knife, am I, Molly" The consulting detective began to squint, his face leaning forward just slightly as he examined her expression.

Molly could not find her words.

"Well," Sherlock said shortly as he stepped back, tucking a bit of his hair behind his ear, "I suppose there are going to be many more shocks for the two of us on the road ahead."

And with that, he left again, in an obviously flustered hurry.

Incredible.

Stupid, stupid, stupid.

Was all Sherlock Holmes could think as he hurried out the hospital doors. He never should have tried that again, it was a moment of weakness. He should have deleted everything about Molly from his mind palace as he said he was going to before. The only trouble was, for some reason, she just wasn't going away. He still had slowly growing rooms filled with her soft smiles, nervous laughter, and hideous jumpers.

"Bloody hell," The consulting detective grumbled as the churning, cloudy sky opened up and he was immediately soaked with water.

He hailed a cab in that marvelous way of his and gave the driver his Baker Street address.

The mystery of Molly Hooper was what had been occupying his mind since the cabbie killer incident a few weeks before. And that was most of the mystery. She had been occupying Sherlock's mind. She used to be maybe one passing thought a week, and those would be about his experiments and her parts in them.

He found himself wondering what she would think about a crime scene, or if she would like a particular concerto that he was playing. It was mind boggling that Dr. Hooper, the dull pathologist, was worming her way into his thoughts (and heart, though he hadn't really admitted that to himself yet.)

As the streets of London flew by, Sherlock scowled. How dare she refuse him! He was Sherlock bloody Holmes! He was the world's first and only consulting detective!

She was lucky to have drawn the notice of a man like him. And she certainly had drawn his notice, that's what irked him. Mostly because she had no reason to.

There was nothing special about her, other than her excessive kindness.

But she'd said no to him!

He kept revisiting that fact. She'd been in love with him for years, yet she rejected him! She should have just taken what she could get. But there was one thought that made his heart clench made its way into his mind: maybe she'd fallen out of love with him. Could one do that? Sherlock had no idea, an understanding of human emotions seemed to allude him.

And for some reason, that thought disturbed him. Sherlock's scowl deepened, (if that was even possible) and he threw some bills into the front seat and stalked onto Baker Street.

As soon as the end of Sherlock's distinctive black coat swirled out of sight, Molly banged her head on the table in front of her repeatedly.

"Why," bang, "did," bang, "I," bang, "say," bang, "NO?!" Bang!

And with the final bang, Molly left her head on the table. Hopefully all of that banging would give her brain damage, and she could live out the rest of her life in a padded cell for turning down SHERLOCK BLOODY HOLMES!

Granted, it did seem like a good idea at the time. And he was being a rather big dick. But he was always like that! And a part of Molly loved that he was better than everyone else. He'd decided that she was good enough to experiment on, and bugger it all! That might not be much, but that might just be enough.

Molly had realized long ago that she was not the type for marriage and children. She was too... Girl next door, without the happy ending of the man realizing how wonderful she is on the inside. She just wasn't the type of girl that blokes were into.

She just had to accept that. And if Sherlock Holmes ever needed some release, she would help him with that.


	2. Chapter 2: The Valentines Day One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And help was just what Molly Hooper did, both to her own amazement and self-loathing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again with Marisa.

And help was just what Molly Hooper did, both to her own amazement and self-loathing. There were so many times in a single day in which she couldn't believe the turn that her life had taken. Wake up, make a cuppa, brush teeth, head off to work. Examine dead bodies, work in getting off Sherlock Holmes wherever possible. She felt like a queen. A goddess. Like the world was hers.

Sure, he didn't seem to care much about Molly's needs, and always hobbled out on unsteady legs before she could say much about it, but he would do the cutest thing where when he was close, he would bury his face in her shoulder! That sort of kind of made it worth it, maybe.

And somehow, Molly felt like the sexiest woman alive because of all this. She could take on the sexiest woman in Britain in a sexy-off and Sherlock would certainly pick her.

Molly took that back in her mind, grimacing and cursing softly, as she remembered another thing.

Having felt much more confident in her own skin, Molly began wearing more flattering clothes to work. Makeup, even, sometimes, if she felt up to the task of putting it on that morning. She could practically feel her male colleagues brimming with all kinds of disgusting, unsavory comments - though of course they said nothing, and the illusion was shattered. And she didn't care.

What she did care about, though, was the opinion of one man she sometimes had the privilege of working with.

When seeing Molly in her makeup and heels and tighter pencil skirts, the consulting detective could only roll his eyes and snort - almost laugh, even. And even though she kept smiling, deep down it devastated her. Why was her confidence so funny to him? Apparently the man she felt sexy for being around did not find her half as sexy as she herself did! What a disappointment. SHE was a disappointment.

But perhaps Sherlock Holmes noticed this one day in particular more than others.

Obviously he had known it all along, or else he would not have done anything to acknowledge it, but when the consulting detective arrived at her work station one day with a ridiculous heart-shaped box of chocolates, Molly had to say she was a little confused.

Had February 14th come so soon? Part of her wanted to check if it wasn't the 15th and this man had not just raided the bargain candy. Somehow that occurred to her as something he would do.

But it didn't occur to Sherlock Holmes; who had definitely, despite his own self loathing in the process, went out of his way to buy this woman a gift for Valentine's Day; that she would think these things. That Molly, despite all of her 'confidence', would never be able to see it for what it was, a simple gift.

Was it... A backhanded compliment? Was he calling her typical? Of course a boring old thing like Molly Hooper would enjoy CHOCOLATES, ugh, what a stupid woma-

"It's the least I could do," said Sherlock Holmes, interrupting the self-loathing she was so deeply experiencing. "If you don't mind accepting it."

Molly eyes the box of chocolates, a nervous smile crossing her face. "H-how thoughtful, thank you..."

She took it awkwardly, as if it was given to her by her brother. Sherlock tried to hide his scowl. She didn't want something like this from him. Stupid! Stupid! STUPID!

And thus spoke Sherlock Holmes, "I thought of perhaps buying you roses. Not red, of course, some other color that more accurately encompasses our relationship. But I wouldn't have guessed that you followed the language of flowers, so I decided against it. And I guessed that you would enjoy chocolates - those with fruit and various cremes in them. You seem the type to like milk and white chocolates as well. Nothing too bitter."

Molly's teeth unclenched at the end of the consulting detective's speech, now realizing that the possibility of an insult had now passed.

"So I bought you chocolates - a simple gift for a simple woman."

Or not.

Molly hugged the box to her chest awkwardly, thanking Sherlock. Meekly.

... And an even more awkward silence fell upon them.

Sherlock then slipped a hand under Molly's chin, tipping it up enough to plant a gentle kiss on her forehead.

"Please have a good Valentine's Day, then, Molly."

He tightened his scarf around his neck, giving a light sigh as he turned on his heel to go.

And just as he was out the door, Molly managed a shaky "Th-thank you...!"

In that same moment, she realized that on this day, Sherlock Holmes came to see her without needing to use her. He came, of his own free will, on no kind of business terms, to visit her. They hadn't shagged or even kissed.

He had come because he had wanted to give her a gift for valentines day. And despite the insult added on to the end, Molly was touched.

A new case, that's what he needed. He needed something to keep his mind busy and off of a certain pathologist. He wasn't sure what possessed him to give Molly something for Valentine's Day, but what he did realize is that it wasn't well received. And he couldn't, for the life of him, figure out why.

Sherlock sat down on the couch in his flat and steepled his fingers underneath his chin.

Maybe she wasn't interested in him. Of course she had seemed like she was in the past, but she may have gotten over that by now. That thought made something in Sherlock's stomach feel very uncomfortable and he felt the urge to punch a wall. (He didn't take time to analyze why.)

A realization came over Sherlock that made him scowl, Molly wasn't satisfied with their sexual encounters. All the data was there: she never initiated contact with him, she had been wearing more fitted clothing (obviously she realized that he had no interest in such things, and she must be trying to get someone else's attention), she looked very uncomfortable when given a Valentine's Day gift. Something that his extensive research told him that women enjoyed from the object of their affections.

He picked up his violin and began sawing out a horrible combination of notes that had Mrs. Hudson wincing in her room below.

Everything led him to one conclusion... He was not up to par with his sexual prowess. He had to admit, he didn't have much experience in that area, but he thought he had the general concept.

Sherlock quickly set down his instrument and did a search on his phone. His blue eyes widened dramatically as the reality dawned on him. He grinned and once again started playing his violin, this time a happy tune that matched his mood.

He had not been attending to Molly's needs. Well, that could soon be fixed.

Sherlock was distracted from his goal as he picked up an interesting case about a banker, a Chinese circus, and the odd letter M. But as soon as that was resolved, Sherlock set about trying to give Molly the most satisfying experiences of her life.


	3. Chapter 3: The One With Mycroft

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He smoothed down the lapels of his suit jacket and smirked. "That's actually what I brought you here to talk about Miss... Sorry, Dr. Hooper." His eyes twinkled as Molly's narrowed. "My baby brother, he's been spending quite a lot of time with you lately, hasn't he."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> With Marisa again.

Molly's first boyfriend was Jeremy Fisher, a fifteen year old boy with out of control carrot colored locks and an explosion of freckles across his face. She had been thirteen at the time and had been swept away in the romanticism of it all.

He was that bloke, the one who threw pebbles at a girl's window, and serenaded her with cheesy love songs in the school hallway. And when they had grown apart, Molly had thought she'd never feel something like that again...

And she was right.

Being with (she wasn't fool enough to think they were dating) Sherlock Holmes wasn't anything like being with Jeremy Fisher.

But it might have been a little bit better.

Well, sure they didn't go on dates. Sure they didn't ever do anything but shag. Sure Sherlock never gave any indication of ever caring one iota about her.

None of that mattered, Molly knew (or she thought she knew) that Sherlock cared about her. Because actions spoke louder than words, right? And after the whole Valentine's Day incident, Sherlock had gotten a hell of a lot more attentive. He would look to her needs before his own. There was even this one time, when she was on the night shift working on paperwork. And he had snuck up behind her and whispered filthy suggestions in her ear. His hand had drifted downward...

And, well...

You get the picture.

Sherlock had obviously done some research, because Molly was very surprised (and delighted) by the things he could do with that tongue.

And not just on her, he had taken up the habit of, right as she was orgasming, telling her that she was beautiful. That her eyes shone and her skin glowed.

It was really rather sweet now that she thought about it. Molly had stopped wearing her "confident" clothes, because she really didn't need them to be confident anymore.

So yes, Molly believed that Sherlock cared for her, even if he wasn't ready to admit it yet. That is, until she met his brother.

 

*

 

She had just gotten out of the hospital, and was making her way to the local chip shop, as a sleek black car pulled up right in front of her. A beautiful woman in a pant suit, eyes glued to her mobile stepped out.

"Please step inside Miss Hooper." She said, almost bored.

Molly automatically stepped back in caution.

"H-how do you know m-m-my name?" She stuttered out.

The glamorous woman let out a gusty sigh and rolled her pretty eyes, glancing up from her texting. "Does it really matter?" She gave a small smile that was in no way reassuring.

"Yes, and unless you tell me I'm not getting in." Molly said in a momentary burst of courage. Then she added, "Also, its Dr. Hooper to you."

The woman smiled a little wider at that. "Really, its in your best interest to get in the car."

Molly visibly gulped and considered her options. It wasn't like she could outrun a car, and she felt like the woman (however pretty) could overpower the pathologist in a second if it came to a fight.

So Molly smoothed down her jumper (wrinkled, but her favorite one with the cherries) and stepped into the car.

 

*

 

It was a bit larger that she had imagined and there were sets of seats: the one she was sitting on, and the one facing her. And sitting on the seat directly opposite of her was a starched man that looked to be in his mid forties, sitting in a suit with an umbrella next to him.

"Good afternoon Miss Hooper." He said, and his voice reminded her a little bit of something, but she couldn't figure out what.

"What do you want with me?" Molly demanded, surprising herself with her boldness.

The man across from her raised an eyebrow as the car began to move, but he ignored her question. "That was quite a show out there Miss Hooper-"

"Doctor." She corrected. "Dr. Hooper."

One side of the man's mouth lifted up a fraction. "As you wish. And I suppose I should introduce myself as well. I am Mycroft Holmes."

Recognition dawned in Molly's eyes. "Sherlock's brother."

"You've heard about me." It wasn't a question.

"In passing."

He smoothed down the lapels of his suit jacket and smirked. "That's actually what I brought you here to talk about Miss... Sorry, Dr. Hooper." His eyes twinkled as Molly's narrowed. "My baby brother, he's been spending quite a lot of time with you lately, hasn't he."

Molly shifted uncomfortably in her seat. "I suppose."

"Don't play dumb Dr. Hooper. I see all."

Without meaning too, Molly snorted. Mycroft raised an eyebrow. "Sorry." She said, biting her lip to keep from smiling. "But that was a bit melodramatic don't you think?" She twirled the end of her ponytail. "I mean, all you need is a fluffy white cat and a mustache to twirl and you've got the stereotypical movie villain thing down pat."

Mycroft's lips twitched in what seemed like genuine amusement this time. "It seems us Holmes' have a propensity to do that."

"You're telling me!" Molly grinned.

Mycroft smiled softly then sobered. "Yes, indeed, but I wanted to discuss a very serious matter with you."

"What?" She asked suspiciously.

"I need you to stop seeing my brother." Mycroft said calmly, and Molly's small mouth dropped open rather inelegantly. "Now, I've taken the liberty of securing a higher paying job for you in Scotland. Now, there's a few details that I'd like to-"

"What do you mean move to Scotland?!" Molly exclaimed. "I'm not going bloody anywhere! Take me home." She demanded. "Now."

"Calm down Dr. Hooper." Mycroft said, bringing his hands up to shoulder level with sympathy in his eyes. "Its best for everyone involved if you leave town. Its my duty as the eldest sibling to clean up my brothers messes." And this one had gotten rather messy, he thought with a sigh. "Dr. Hooper, my brother doesn't feel emotions like normal people. And he will never love you as you wish him too, it best if you get yourself out of this situation in the quickest and cleanest way possible."

Molly's lips formed a thin line and tears glistened in her eyes, but she refused to let them fall. Her hands clenched with the effort, but she spoke. "I think you're wrong." She whispered, then wiped at her eyes and cleared her throat. "But it doesn't matter, I'm staying where I am." She said firmly.

Mycroft sighed and looked at her with pity. "As you wish."

The car came to a smooth stop in front of the chip shop Molly had been about to eat at. She stepped out and walked quickly back to the hospital forgetting about food as the tears started to fall.

 

*

 

Mycroft looked at the young pathologists departing form sadly as Anthea slipped into the seat next to him.

"How did it go sir?" She asked.

"Not very well Anthea, not very well at all."

 

*

 

Molly brushed past her coworkers as she swiftly made her way to her office.

Mycroft had been right, she had been a fool to believe that Sherlock cared for he in any way. If he cared for her, he would have made his intentions clear. If he cared for her, he would talk to her. If he cared for her, he would have told her.

The fact that Molly couldn't imagine Sherlock Holmes doing any of those things, least of all to her, didn't make her feel any better.

She wiped her tears away brusquely. She needed something to occupy her time, and it was just then that she noticed someone had posted a new comment on her blog.


End file.
